


To Dance, Perchance, To Dream

by NaroMoreau



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Dancing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Snow, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), this is absolutely softe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:53:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27958685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaroMoreau/pseuds/NaroMoreau
Summary: It's winter and Crowley hates to be stranded inside the cottage by the snow. Aziraphale comes up with a solution.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 64
Kudos: 183





	To Dance, Perchance, To Dream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beanadias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beanadias/gifts).



> Because just now I found out how much you love this trope and you've been incredibly amazing to me. 💕
> 
> This is absolutely a super self indulgent thing I wrote because I needed these two dancing like this. That's it. Thank you to the wonderful [hanap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanap/pseuds/hanap), for doing a quick beta of this. Thank u bb, I don't know what I would do without you 💕

Aziraphale quickly knows there's something wrong.

Crowley’s restless, tapping his foot against the hardwood floor of their home with that elegant swirl of the ankle Aziraphale is so fond of. He sprawls further on the sofa like a rumpled blanket, swinging a leg over an armrest, then switches until he's pressed flat on his stomach. Aziraphale can see the rippling line of his back shifting in his endeavor to achieve the most uncomfortable position until he manages to tangle both of his legs into the afghan.

"Something wrong, dearest?" Aziraphale asks, looking over the line of his book. 

Crowley kicks himself free, huffing loudly, a quirk of annoyance flickering on his face. "Nah. Just, the doldrums, I think." 

"Ah." Aziraphale needs to say no more. 

It’s winter, the snow falling over the South Downs, wrapping them up inside the cottage with no place to go.

Aziraphale knows Crowley enough to see that this fact is weighing heavy on him. It’s there, in the set of his jaw, the taut line of his shoulders, the abortive movements he makes as if to stand up, falling again into the plush comfort of their cushions. Out of the two of them Crowley has always needed to commune with the outside the most, to drink on the greenery and speckled color of flowers liberally blanketing the slopes around their home. To step outside because sometimes not even his own plants would do. 

He still misses St. James Park, from time to time. 

Out of the two of them, Crowley has always loved this world of Hers the most, not that he would ever admit it, the silly serpent.

Aziraphale hears the discordant rumble of a grunt, sees the pinch of exhaustion in Crowley's face, curling his mouth, etching his brow. Him whole a strung up line. 

It's heartwarming to think how much things have changed, how Crowley has ditched his sunglasses, how less guarded he is nowadays: no more doors shut tight, no more words stuck in the silence of the space between them, thrumming under their skins but never reaching each other's hearts.

It's liberating.

Aziraphale knows Crowley well enough to also realize the overwhelming feeling is tangling his insides, knotting up his limbs and sweeping off that rakish smile Aziraphale so longs to see. 

He wishes he could do something, offer some absurd comfort for this thing that as mundane and mild as it seems, it's also terribly important. Because he knows Crowley would do the same if it were him. 

Aziraphale casts about their living room, cluttered with boxes and knick-knacks, as if looking for an answer and the space seems insufficient, untidy and unkempt.

They've been cutting down on miracles, trying to fit in, to  _ belong _ here in this world they had saved. And six thousand years of history are hard to cram in a ten by ten. 

Perched on the sofa, Crowley has stopped moving altogether, his eyes trained on the ceiling. 

The sight is even more discouraging, pulling attention at how much of Aziraphale's peripheral vision is always filled with a swirl of movement. With blacks, and reds and the universe in perpetual motion that’s always Crowley. 

"Crowley, dearest, would you like some coffee?" Aziraphale offers.

"Nah."

"Something to eat perhaps?"

"Nope."

"How about if we watch one of those shows you love so much? The Netflix? Or perhaps The Amazon Prime?"

Crowley snorts loudly which is frankly  _ rude _ . "Leave it, Angel. 'S alright."

Aziraphale clenches his jaw. "So are you going to stay there, collecting dust as a broken household appliance?"

"Yup."

It's Aziraphale's turn to huff.

For a second he wishes he could take Crowley away, to fly him far from this place so he wouldn't feel so forlorn. 

To fly, to fly…

Aziraphale sits ramrod straight on his armchair.

It's positively ridiculous, but the idea drills itself to the forefront of his mind. It's perhaps, not the best or smartest one, but alas, he made it. 

He resolutely closes his book and pulls himself upright, walking to where Crowley is still slumped, practically swallowed by the leather.

"Give me your hand," Aziraphale says, curling his fingers in his direction. 

Crowley blinks, focusing glazed eyes on Aziraphale’s face. "What? What for?"

"Just give me your hand, you silly thing."

Crowley does as told and Aziraphale pulls him up, gently, until their chests are pressed together.

"Angel, what-"

"Shh, my darling boy," Aziraphale soothes. "Just let me guide you."

He ushers Crowley to the center of the room, and slithers an arm around his waist, his broad palm firmly settled on Crowley's lower back. 

"May I have this dance?" Aziraphale asks, offering his free hand up. 

Crowley opens his mouth and shuts it without uttering a sound. Then, his lips curl in a grin that splits his face in joy. Guileless golden eyes awash with mirth. 

"Are you serious?"

Aziraphale tsks. "Of course I am."

"What prompted this?"

"Answer me first, it isn't kind to keep a suitor waiting," Aziraphale answers.

"I would hardly call my own husband a suitor, but sure. Fine. You can have this, whatever this is."

Aziraphale smiles and takes Crowley's hand in his, while Crowley clings to his shoulder, to the curve of his waist. 

There's no music swelling in the air, no chords filling the space with harmonics that are slow to die. Only parquet beneath their feet, specks of dust in the lingering sunbeams over their heads. 

There's no melancholy clinging to plucked piano keys, no happiness in strummed strings. There's only Crowley's heartbeat, the rise and fall of his chest with every sharp pitch of a breath.

Aziraphale sways them slowly, from side to side, barely a motion that could be detected if someone was looking. He wraps Crowley tighter in his arms, pressing his face behind Crowley's ear, nosing down the line where an auburn curl rests following the delicate angle of his neck. 

Crowley exhales a thready breath. "We look ridiculous."

"No, we don't."

"Yes, we do. A pair of delusional bastards, dancing to the sound of nothing."

Aziraphale traces the angle of Crowley's jaw with kisses, before whispering in his ear, "Are we?"

In Aziraphale's arms, Crowley shudders. 

"Yes," he says, the words working through a throat that clicks wet, "and besides. Angels don't dance, so don't tread on my toes."

"They said it's like flying… dancing that is."

"Who's they?"

"Humans."

"'Course they do. They  _ have _ to say that. They don't fly."

Aziraphale laughs. "Do demons dance?" 

"Ngh. Depends who you ask. I'd say yes, though very poorly."

"Then better  _ you _ don't step on my toes."

He spans the length of Crowley's back disregarding etiquette, tracing the ridge of his shoulder blades, the dip of his spine. They're alone, and the room is theirs. Crowley settles his head heavy on Aziraphale's shoulder.

"You know?" Aziraphale says, pressing his lips to that riot of red hair. "Some human said…"

Crowley lifts his face. "What's that?"

"He said,  _ and those who were seeing dancing thought to be insane by those who couldn't hear the music _ ."

Crowley hums. "Well, he wasn't  _ wrong _ . Clever things, humans. I bet our neighbours would think the same if they saw us right now."

"If," Aziraphale strains. He rises to the balls of his feet and pulls Crowley to his left, in a seamless motion. 

“Bit good at this we are, aren’t we?” says Crowley, probably because they haven’t stepped on each other’s feet until now. Six thousand years traversing in perfect balance.

Aziraphale side steps, and twirls them. Crowley follows him, relents any thread of control he could have had, and sinks further into his arms. 

“You're right, by the way,” Aziraphale whispers. 

"Oh? That’s new. Put it in writing."

"You daft thing. You were right, angels don't dance." Aziraphale pulls away by a hairbreadth and presses their foreheads together, inhaling the fragrance of Crowley's cologne, the musky edge that's all him. "But we've always done things at our own pace, you and I. We've always danced at our own beat, so to speak."

"We have, haven't we?" Crowley says, full of hopes that grate on his voice, a hoarse sound that carries the longing of six thousand years buried at the back of his throat. 

"I’m sorry." Aziraphale hums, carrying them around the room, watching the dying light of dusk brush tired fingers over Crowley's hair. He stops and cups Crowley’s warm cheek in his hand, dragging the pad of his thumb just below where his dark lashes brush the skin. "It took me a bit to find out. To know you were the one mirroring my every step."

"Not Heaven." Crowley closes his eyes and his voice is ragged, as if he was scraping it from deep within him. 

"Never Heaven,” Aziraphale says fiercely. “Only you. Only ever  _ you _ ."

Crowley’s head finds his spot on Aziraphale’s shoulder again, and Aziraphale feels the suffocating weight easing from his muscles one swirl at the time. Aziraphale leads him, and they dance to the memory of centuries past, to the image of ballrooms where their hands and their feet never met, lacing the line of their hopes with the threads of their future. 

Crowley looks peaceful, blissfully drowsy, which is why Aziraphale is surprised when he murmurs, “How do you always know?”

“What is that, my darling?”

“How do you always know how to put up with me?”

Aziraphale smiles into Crowley’s temple, buries a kiss in the corner of his mouth. “Oh, I don’t know. I guess six thousand years is time enough to know someone,” he says, letting go of Crowley's waist.

“Is that so?”

Aziraphale intertwines their fingers, and brings their joined hands between their chests, a buffer for their thundering hearts. 

“Or perhaps," he says, skimming his lips across Crowley's cheek, across his knuckles, feather-like, "it's only because I love you.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hmu on [Tumblr](https://naromoreau.tumblr.com/) <3  
> Or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/xenoscientist/) 💙


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